Chapter 5: Recall

It was night outside, and the phosphor bulbs at the corners glowed dimly, giving him barely enough light by which to locate the way to the extemporized precinct house. Bruce Gordon reached the outskirts of the miserable business section, noticing that a couple of the shops were still open. It had probably been years since any had dared risk it after the sun went down. And the slow, doubtful respect on the faces of the citizens as they nodded to him was even more proof that Haley’s system was working. Gordon nodded to a couple, and they grinned faintly at him. Damn it, Mars could be cleaned up...

He grinned at himself, then something needled at his mind, until he swung back. The man who had just passed was carrying a lunch basket, and was wearing the coveralls of one of the crop-prospector crews; but the expression on his face had been wrong.

Red hair, too heavily built, a lighter section where a mustache had been shaved and the skin not quite perfectly powdered ... Gordon moved forward quickly, until he could make out the thin scar showing through the make-up over the man’s eyes. He’d been right--this was O’Neill, head of the Stonewall gang.

Gordon hit the signal switch, and the Marspeaker let out a shrill whistle. O’Neill had turned to run, and then seemed to think better of it. His hand darted down to his belt, just as Gordon reached him.

The heavy locust stick met the man’s wrist before the weapon was half drawn--another gun! Guns suddenly seemed to be flourishing everywhere. The gun dropped from O’Neill’s hand as the wrist snapped, and the Stonewall chief let out a high-pitched cry of pain. Then another cop came around a corner at a run.

“You can’t do it to me! I’m reformed; I’m going straight! You damned cops can’t...” O’Neill was blubbering. The small crowd that was collecting was all to the good, Gordon knew, and he let O’Neill go on. Nothing could help break up the gangs more than having a leader break down in public.

The other cop had yanked out O’Neill’s wallet, and now tossed it to Gordon. One look was enough--the work papers had the telltale over-thickening of the signature that had showed up on other papers, obviously forgeries. The cops had been passing them on the hope of finding one of the leaders.

Some turned away as Gordon and the other cop went to work, but most of them weren’t squeamish. When it was over, the two picked up their whimpering captive. Gordon pocketed the revolver with his free hand. “Walk, O’Neill!” he ordered. “Your legs are still whole. Use them!”

The man staggered between them, whimpering at each step. If any members of the gang were around, they made no attempt to rescue him.

Jenkins, the other cop, had been holding the wallet. Now he held it out toward Gordon. “The gee was heeled, Corporal. Must of been making a big contact in something. Fifty-fifty?”

“Turn it in to Murdoch,” Gordon said, and then cursed himself. There must have been over two thousand credits in the wallet.

The captain’s face had been buried in a pile of papers, but now Murdoch came around to stare at the gang leader. He inspected the forged work papers, and jerked his thumb toward one of the hastily built cells where a doctor would look O’Neill over--eventually. When Gordon and Jenkins came back, Murdoch tossed the money to them. “Split it. You guys earned it by keeping your hands off it. Anyhow, you’re as entitled to it as he was--or the grafters back at Police Headquarters. I never saw it. Gordon, you’ve got a visitor!”

His voice was bitter, but he made no opening for them to question him as he picked up the papers and began going through them again. Gordon went down the passage to the end of the hall, in the direction Murdoch had indicated. Waiting for him was the lean, cynical little figure of Honest Izzy, complete with uniform and sergeant’s stripes.

“Hi, gov’nor,” the little man greeted him. “Long time no see. With you out here and me busy nights doing a bit of convoy work on the side, we might as well not both live at Mother’s.”

Bruce Gordon nodded, grinning in spite of himself. “Convoy duty, Izzy? Or dope running?”

“Whatever comes to hand, gov’nor. The Force pays for my time during the day, and I figure my time’s my own at night. Of course, if I ever catch myself doing anything shady during the day, I’ll have to turn myself in. But it ain’t likely.” He grinned in satisfaction. “Now that I’ve dug up the scratch to buy these stripes and get made sergeant--and that takes the real crackle--I’m figuring on taking it easy.”